


The Liberating Power of Old Women with Guns

by fionaclare



Series: The Healing of Incomplete Injuries [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: And angst, Derogatory Language, Disability, Healing, Homophobic Language, M/M, Post S3e5, Sex, and is not ashamed, first chapter is depressing but after that we have sex, inclusive sex? idk Mickey can't use his legs they make it work, mickey has self discovery, swearing and lots of it, the author has a kink for Ian kissing mickeys legs and bullet scar, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fionaclare/pseuds/fionaclare
Summary: Ian stared at him with that look. Resignation. Mickey held his gaze. Both of them realised as the van swerved suddenly and Iggy yelled out 'sorry guys' before the car picked up acceleration again, that everything they had, that they were, that they could have been, was now over.The bullet hit his spine that day. Not his ass or his thigh but his fucking spine. Mickey now knew not to mess with old women with guns, but it was too late now.or, an alternate universe where mickey becomes a paraplegic, makes a friend, gets an out of character job, and tries to forget about ian gallagher
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: The Healing of Incomplete Injuries [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1652974
Comments: 37
Kudos: 147





	1. Women with Guns and Nail Polish

In the front yard of an opulent North Side neighbourhood, where only twenty minutes before two boys had shared their first kiss in a beat-up van parked in the driveway, an old woman with a shotgun stumbled down the staircase in her home. Wearing a nightgown that hanged off her shoulders and a sleeping mask twisted in her bedridden hair, she yelled out to the intruders who had attempted to carry out her great uncle’s grandfather clock and were now running out the front door.

“Fuck! Fucking _Ned!_ Are you fucking him too?”

She stumbled onto her front porch and aimed the gun at the closest figure to her, who ran desperately towards the idle truck in her driveway filled with her household possessions. She had taken three Ambien the night before with a bottle of champagne. Ned hadn’t come home. Her vision was blurred, but fingers trigger happy as she fired the shotgun.

The sound of the gunfire shrilled in her ears. She brought her hand up to cover her eyes where black spots clouded her vision. “Fucking Ned,” she hissed. She wasn’t worried about the stolen items. They were replaceable and they had insurance. _Fuck I need some whiskey_ , she thought as she stumbled back into her house and locked the door behind her. She would call the police after she had a drink. Priorities _._

Meanwhile, Mickey was _pissed_. He had been fucking _shot_ , and this time, he couldn’t find the strength to get up and push himself the ten meters to the door of the van. _All this for a fucking clock._

Collapsed in the grass with a bullet in his lower back he yelled out to his brothers to help him up. Joey and Iggy lifted him by the arms, the three of them pretended not to notice how Mickey's legs dragged lifeless against the lawn. They lifted and pushed him into the van through the side door and slammed it shut behind them before Iggy jumped into the driver’s seat and sped out of the driveway.

Joey spoke first, he was with Mickey and watched as blood pooled into the back of Mickeys shirt.

“It’s bad Iggy, look at his legs. Not moving.”

Iggy tapped his hands against the steering wheel before he replied. “We have to get him to a hospital. We know what this is. We can’t ghetto nurse him out of this. Where is the nearest public hospital?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey grumbled, his vision clouded at the edges. Panic set in as he tried to move his feet. Nothing. He brought his hand up to his face and felt no tear tracks, only his signature layer of grime. _Good, only pussies cry_.

It was then that he turned his attention to the figure in the passenger seat. Ian stared at him with _that_ look. Resignation. Mickey held his gaze. Both of them realised as the van swerved suddenly and Iggy yelled out _'sorry guys_ ' before the car picked up acceleration again, that everything they had, that they were, that they could have been, was now over. Mickey passed out moments later.

*

The sound of a cheap bottle of nail polish being cracked open woke Mickey from his sleep. He had been at the hospital for three days. The first day had been his admittance and surgery to get the bullet out. The second the doctor told Mickey that he would never walk again, something about entering the lower thoracic part of his spine, but that many in his situation _‘lived long and happy lives’_. He told the doctor to fuck off and waste his bedside talk on someone who would believe it. The third day he was allowed visitors and Mandy was the only one who showed up. He tried not to think about Ian.

“Bitch are you painting your fucking nails right now?” he grumbled. He cracked his eyes open and watched as his sister carefully brushed black ink against her nail beds. Mandy looked up at him and glared, twisted the lid back on and put the bottle on his nightstand. She had only finished one hand.

“Wasn’t sure I liked the colour anyway assface,” she hissed.

“Yeah it looks a little twelve-year-old in Hot Topic for you anyway,” Mickey shot back.

Mandy sighed then looked at him, her expression fell. “How could you let this happen? A fucking clock? A clock isn’t worth _this_.” He didn’t miss the fact that ‘ _this_ ’ was the fact he would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. _No chance of recovery_ , the doctor had said before she put Mickey's chart back on the end of his bed and moved on to the next patient.

“You can’t stay here forever Mick. We can’t afford it. You gotta come home. You know Terry is only going to put up with this for a few weeks, a month, at most. We both do,” Mandy’s voice grew quiet, she picked up the nail polish and began to fiddle with the bottle. "I got some pamphlets from the nurse, there are shelters that will help you – I put them on the nightstand.” He glanced at the small pile of glossy pages and tried not to react to the one at the top of the pile which was specifically for LGBTQ youth. _Fuck she couldn’t know, could she?_

It wasn’t that he hadn’t realised the severity of the situation, he did. He tried not to think too deeply about the fact he felt _nothing_ below his waist. That he would never run down the streets of Chicago again. That his glory days of fucking someone would be quickies in the back of the Kash n Grab. That he couldn't see Ian anymore. If he thought about all these things, the intensity in his chest grew, panic would set in, and the sense of doom would overtake. He couldn’t let that happen. Not when his life was on the line.

Terry would murder him. Mickey wouldn’t be his first victim or his last. _If there is one thing worse than having a fairy for a son, it's having a disabled one._ Terry would stage it as a suicide, a teenager unable to live with his new condition. Mickey wasn’t sure how he felt about dying yet, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to let Terry pull the trigger.

“I’ll figure something out.”

Both siblings grew silent once more. Mandy cracked open the nail polish and started to paint her other hand. She liked the colour after all.

*

Mickey figured something out a week after coming home.

He had a decent chair, on account of Mandy who threatened to beat up a nurse. Suddenly there was a wheelchair in storage that was available for them free of charge. He didn't say thanks, but the small smile he gave Mandy as he was moved into it on the day of his discharge was enough. He hadn't left the house, his brothers carried him up the front steps which mortified Mickey enough to dispel him from smoking outside, instead, he would crack open his bedroom window and light one up, and struggle to pretend that everything was fine.

His brothers were on a run that day and Mandy was at school. They gave up trying to help him two hours into his arrival back home. He was stubborn as shit and would die before he let any of them help him take a shit or bathe. It was hard, he forgot to put the brakes on a few times and had fallen, but he always helped himself back up. Mandy had said Ian asked about him and wanted to visit, but Mickey ignored her every time, he always found an excuse to leave the room and go back to his own.

As a general rule, when Terry was home, he avoided leaving his room at all. His father hadn’t said much to him since his discharge, just sneered at him with disgust in his expression and a few comments about him being a waste of space to his brothers over beer.

He moved out of his room and made his way into the living room. He hoped Terry was passed out so he could quietly grab a packet of chips and retreat into the safety of his room. The TV that they stole last Christmas was on and displayed a boxing match. Terry was slumped on the couch, a cigarette in hand.

“Get me a beer,” Terry grumbled. The colours of the TV illuminated unpleasantly against his face as he took a drag and spluttered out a cough.

Mickey didn’t say anything in reply, just moved into the kitchen and stopped in front of the fridge. He silently cursed the fact they had one with a freezer at the bottom, which meant he couldn’t reach anything in the fridge that was well above his head. He opened the fridge door and noticed the pack of Budweiser’s were on the second top shelf. He rolled his eyes and huffed. _Christ even getting a beer is a fucking task._

He leaned upwards and stretched his arm out. His fingers grazed against the side of the closest can and he wiggled it towards him before it fell from the shelf. Instead of landing in his hands or lap it clanged against the kitchen floor and burst open. Beer spurted from the can all over the kitchen floor.

“ _Fuck,”_ Mickey hissed out, he turned himself around and looked at the mess beneath him. “Shit.”

It was then that Terry stormed into the kitchen. “Shithead,” he snapped, “can’t even get a fucking beer without screwing up.”

His father moved past him and grabbed two cans from the fridge. Terry looked down at his son in disgust. “Maybe I should do us both a favour and grab the gun from the cupboard huh? Useless piece of shit.”

Mickey directed his blank stare to his father’s midsection. He wasn’t that much of a bitch to look at his shoes, or stupid enough to look into his eyes. He always compared it to taming a bull, him being the red flag it charged for.

“Not gonna say anything huh,” Terry leaned down slightly to tap Mickeys cheek with his beer free hand. “Pussy,” he spat, “clean this shit up.” He stumbled out of the kitchen. Mickey heard the creak of the couch as Terry collapsed into it and the volume of the TV increase.

Hastily he threw whatever hole-riddled tea towels he could find in the kitchen onto the floor. They began to soak up the beer from the shitty linoleum as he moved out of the kitchen and back into his room, where he finally allowed himself to breathe. He locked the door behind him and lit a cigarette, his fingers shook as he took a drag. His eyes desperately darted around the room before he snapped into action. He moved to his bedside table and pulled open the drawer, which revealed his loaded Glock. He shakily picked it up but placed it on top of the table when he saw what was beneath it.

The pile of pamphlets Mandy had given him laid before him. He flicked through them, analysed the images of smiling models and declarations of quality support. He knew most shelters wouldn’t accept him. He had a house and extended family who could supposedly support him. He hesitantly glanced at one for a place called The Rainbow Institute, _gay,_ Mickey thought. It featured a rainbow flag and the slogan ‘ _supporting LGBTQ youth since 1979 – call now for support or shelter enquiries_ _’_. He would be a wet dream for a shelter like this, _they would have me on the pamphlets within a year if they could._

Mickey bitterly smiled, _if I’m going to fucking die for being a cripple I may as well die a gay one._ He picked up his phone and tried not to notice how his hands shook, he wasn’t coming out. He _wasn’t_. He was just using all his cards to solve a fucked-up situation. That was all.

He considered briefly calling Ian but knew whatever thing they had going was over. Ian would find someone else easily, _probably already had_ , someone who was out and proud with working legs and no anger issues.

He dialled the number before he could chicken out. The soft ringing in his ear seemed to escalate the longer it remained unanswered. He grew nervous and was about to hang up, throw the phone across the room and say at least he tried when there was a click of the receiver and a man’s voice responding.

“Hi this is Greg from The Rainbow Institute; how can I help you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> So for starters, I wanted to say I am not disabled or paraplegic like Mickey in this story. I have family members who are and require wheelchairs but that certainly does not make me an expert in anything regarding this topic. I have tried hard to make this accurate and not derogatory to the disabled community so please - feel free to tell me if I have made any assumptions or errors.
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it!
> 
> The beta for this work is [Lydia!](https://twitter.com/chrrygallaghers). It would not be the same without her!


	2. Luxury Cars and Cars with Shoddy Engines

The shelter told him two weeks. There was a bed in a dorm available, access to free rehab for his condition and therapy if he wanted it. They told him that they would help him set up a pension scheme (despite the only legitimate income he ever earned was from the Kash n Grab) and hopefully, means to live independently in the future. Mickey doesn’t give much of a shit about that, he only really cared about getting away from Terry before it was too late.

When there were five days until he was to leave the Milkovich house for good, Ian visited.

Mandy wasn't with him, she went out the night before and hadn’t returned in her usual manner, which was loudly raiding the kitchen and sleeping for the rest of the afternoon. Terry and his brothers were on a run and wouldn’t be back for a day. So, when there was a series of knocks on the front door, Mickey grabbed his Glock and wheeled towards the entrance of his home. He gripped the gun and slowly pulled the door open to reveal the redhead, who smiled softly at him as if nothing was different between them. Mickey almost wanted to believe it as well.

That’s why when Ian said, “wanna fuck?”, he agreed. He jumped at the chance to feel anything like he did before the accident. Before their kiss. _Before that fucking clock and drugged old lady._ He turned his upper body around to quickly dispose of the gun by throwing it on the couch.

Mickey was in front of Ian as they moved down the hallway towards his room. He pushed open his door and moved inside. He watched as Ian closed and locked the door behind them.

Ian moved forward to try and help him out of his chair. “Fuck off, can do it myself!” Mickey snarled. He positioned his chair alongside his bed and activated the breaks. He took his shirt off before he braced his arms and lifted himself from the chair, then awkwardly propelled himself onto the edge of his mattress. He bit his tongue, shuffled himself onto his front, and grabbed his pillow before shoving it under his waist to prop himself up.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable? This is how you wanna do it?” Ian asked, his uncertain tone filled the silence of the room. Mickey glared at the headboard and huffed before responding.

"Just get the fuck on me, Gallagher. We haven’t got all day. Lube is in the drawer.” Mickey stayed silent as he listened to Ian take off his clothes. The cap of the lube snapped open and Ian coated his fingers and hardening dick with it.

When Ian’s fingers slipped inside him it was a weird sensation. It wasn’t the same as it was, and he wasn't sure if he could feel everything overwhelmingly or nothing at all. He closed his eyes and tried to focus, but instead realised that his legs couldn’t wrap around anything. He couldn’t thrust himself onto Ian’s fingers, or flip them over to take control. His legs lied dormant. He felt like a vessel rather than a participant. His dick was hard, but he couldn’t bring himself to pay attention to it, he wasn’t even sure if it would do anything. He had tried jacking off when he first came home, but it didn’t feel right and he only got to half-mast before he gave up and smoked some weed instead.

Ian withdrew his fingers after a few more pumps and brushes against his prostate, which, like everything, was different. It wasn’t a white-hot flash of pleasure like it used to be but an ebbing heat that promised more but didn’t seem to grow.

Just before Ian lined his dick up with his hole, Mickey snapped. “Fuck this isn’t working!” Ian, despite remaining silent throughout most of it, let out a sigh of relief. Mickey pushed himself up, used one hand to chuck the pillow across the room, and flipped himself on his back. “Let’s try this way.”

Ian grinned, and lifted Mickey’s legs onto his shoulders and pushed in. He groaned above Mickey. “Fuck I missed this.” Mickey could only nod as he grew accustomed to the stretch. It felt good. Not as good as _before,_ but good. “Move,” he told Ian, who was busy using his hands to stroke along the tops of his lower legs. Not that he can feel it. Ian snapped into action, surged forward and buried his dick in Mickey. They both groaned. He thrust into him at a fast pace, and after a while, Mickey could tell Ian was about to come. “Don’t you fucking dare!” he snapped. Ian looked at him in dejection, then slowed down to softer, measured thrusts.

“Aren’t you close?” Ian asked as he moved against Mickey’s prostate, pale skin flushed as he tried to hold back his orgasm.

Mickey didn’t know. _Before_ he would have been more vocal, coming between them quickly before Ian finished inside him. This time it felt good, really good, but he couldn’t tell if his orgasm was coming seconds after Ian or ten minutes. It’s like going from driving a fancy luxury car that accelerates perfectly, to an old car with a shoddy engine that needed encouragement to reach the speed limit.

“Let me ride you,” he answered instead. He watched Ian grow excited once more and quickly pull out. He went to lie next to Mickey. He let Ian help arrange him on his lap, his leaking dick on Ian’s stomach and ass against his dick. Ian grabbed Mickey's hips to help lift the other man onto him, who was using one hand to stroke the redhead’s dick and line it up with his hole. Once the head of Ian's dick entered Mickey, he slapped Ian’s hands away from his hips and let himself sink down until his ass was against Ian’s thighs. Fully seated, he used both hands to push himself up from Ian’s chest and then down on Ian’s dick. Not being able to move as much as he used to, he grew tired quickly of the effort he had to apply for only a fraction of the pleasure he used to get from riding someone. He tried not to let his emotions show, _fuck I can’t even ride a guy properly anymore._ Ian, _of course,_ noticed the way Mickeys face darkened and quickly grabbed onto Mickey’s hips, helping him move up and down against his dick. Mickey didn’t say it, but he appreciated it, riding someone with only half your body working was fucking _hard_.

Ian’s dick brushed his prostate, and upon finding it he relentlessly touched it with every thrust. “Ian,” he whined, and _fuck_ he hates when he does that, “gonna come.” He was sure this time, the tightening of his stomach and fogging of the brain before white-hot pleasure. He was sure of it. This is the first time since the accident he has _felt_ , and he was loving it.

“Me too Mick,” Ian grunted and thrust upwards as he moved Mickey up and down on his dick. He used one hand to reach where he was moving in and out of the man above him and used a finger to rub and put pressure against his rim. Mickey whimpered, groaned, then came across Ian’s chest with a shout and Ian came soon after. His cum coated Mickey’s insides. Mickey pulled himself from Ian’s dick and fell to the other side of the bed. Brain fogged with the afterglow he rested his head against Ian’s chest, their breaths evened out together as garbage trucks rumbled outside, kids yelled, and gunshots fired.

After a while, Ian spoke.

“That was amazing,” he said while staring at the stained roof of his lover’s bedroom.

Mickey’s state of relaxation ended, and his hackles raised. “Sure, whatever you say.” He moved away from leaning against Ian’s chest and stared instead at the wall against his bed. He wanted Ian to leave, they both got what they wanted.

“Did you not enjoy it?” Ian said with uncertainty, he propped his head upon his arm and touched Mickey’s shoulder. “Look I know we haven’t talked about what happened but-”

“Don’t,” Mickey snapped. “It was a good last fuck for me, but you can leave now and go find someone who doesn’t need help getting on a fucking bed.” Mickey was still staring at the wall. Ian’s cum dripped out of him onto the sheets and he’s tried to decide if he was bothered enough to wash them.

“Mick you know I don’t care about that. I thought-well I thought we were something you know?” Ian pleaded behind him.

“Just go Gallagher,” he muttered and turned his head into his pillow-less mattress to feign exhaustion, he hoped this would make the younger boy leave.

“Fine. Keep thinking this is nothing or the last time. Mandy told me you are going to the shelter in a few days. I’ll visit you alright?” Ian said as he pulled his clothes on. Before he left, he pressed a kiss to Mickey’s head, and surprisingly one to the scar of the bullet wound on his lower back. If a few tears escaped Mickey’s eyes as the front door of the Milkovich house closed behind the redhead - that was no one’s fucking business but his own.

*

The shelter was a shit hole. But it was better than home.

He had been there a week. He was put in a dorm with ten other guys. There was one amputee but the rest of the guys were ‘able-bodied’. He was given a bottom bunk _thank god_ , not like he could manage a top anyway he thought, not at all missing the irony. There was enough room to keep his wheelchair next to the bunk without fucking off his bunkmate. He had a trash bag full of clothes that Mandy had helped him pack and some toothpaste and an old toothbrush. That was it. Mandy had visited once but she was busy with school. Terry didn't give a shit that he was gone, one less mouth to feed. His brothers were getting high or on runs.

Ian hadn’t visited.

As his time at the shelter stretched to two weeks, he began to resent the redhead. How dare he give him that little bit of hope that was now crushing him from the inside? He began dodging calls from Mandy to avoid hearing any news regarding her friend, who she managed to insert into any conversation as if he really was her boyfriend. He silently wished he would one day be able to talk about a man so passionately without getting the shit beaten out of him.

It was the middle of his second week when he was approached by another guy from his dorm, Archie, he thought his name was. He was built. Had brown hair and a nice enough face. He wasn’t Ian but no-one would ever be. _But you gotta take opportunities as they come_.

They went back to their dorm while everyone was out volunteering in the shelter or in the outside world to earn some cash, Mickey unbuckled his pants and pulled them down his legs. Archie knelt in front of his chair and took him into his mouth. It was alright. It wasn’t Ian. But after a few well-planned tugs and sucks he was coming down Archie’s throat, only feeling half satisfied.

Mickey didn’t see Ian standing in the doorway to their dorm, a handful of Snickers bars and a packet of weed in his hands. The redhead turned away from the scene and didn’t look back. He dumped the Snickers bars in the charity food drive near the exit and smoked the weed on his way back to Wallace Street. After every blunt he rolled he told himself to forget about Mickey Milkovich, and by the time he reached the rusted gate of his family home, high on a feeling of weightlessness and anger, he vowed to never fall in love with someone ever again. _They only break your heart anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i just compare sex drive and arousal to cars? yes, yes i did. hope you all enjoyed - the support on the last chapter was lovely! let me know your thoughts :)


	3. Support Phones and Sex Addicts Anonymous

One year passed. Mickey surprised himself by taking up some other guy’s shift at the support phones. By this point, he had not attended therapy or contributed at all to the shelter. The guy, desperate to make it to his partner’s top surgery to support him, begged the other volunteers but they were already so short-staffed. Mickey was next in line, the guy they were too nice to kick out but all slightly irritated of his lack of help towards _anything_. 

Mickey agreed for a half-empty pack of smokes. That afternoon he moved the old ripped office chair in front of the phones out of his way and wheeled himself in its place. After a few minutes of getting himself orientated with the worn laminated sheet telling him what to say in cheery comic sans, the phone in front of him rang.

He swallowed, and hesitantly picked up the corded phone. With shaking hands, he spoke into the receiver. 

“Hey,” he swallowed and rubbed his finger along his eyebrow. “This is Mickey from, uh, The Rainbow Institute, how can I help you?” He exhaled in relief, _at least I got one thing right before this falls to shit_. 

There was silence for a moment before a girl’s voice sounded through the phone. It came through quiet as if she was whispering.

“Hi, uh, my name’s Ashleigh. I don't know if it's right for me to be calling, there are probably more important people needing to talk to you, so I’m sorry...” she rambled slightly, her breath came out shaky, awkward. Mickey, instead of replying immediately, was shocked at the idea that people were wanting _his_ advice, _his_ help. He was just a phone operator, _not even._ He suddenly understood that he had a sense of authority, leadership, over these people. Whatever he told them they would consider _correct_. He tried not to freak out over this and focused on conversing with the caller. 

His gaze dashed over the laminated support terms and suggested responses before he rushed out reassuringly, “Hi Ashleigh, don’t worry no one else is on the line right now, and even if they were, they would probably say the same thing you’re saying. All your thoughts are important. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Fuck he sounded _soft_. Terry would beat the shit out of him if he heard him right now. But strangely, after a year from home, this thought entered and exited Mickey’s mind just as quickly, leaving him unfazed. 

“So um, I don’t know what I am. I find girls attractive but guys as well. I like different things about them and maybe want different things? I’m not sure. Anyway. The other night my parents had close family friends over. Their son, who is usually with them, didn’t come. During dinner they told us he had come out to them last week and that they had _luckily_ ,” she let out a shaky breath, “found an immediate spot for them at a conversion place like two states away. They were so relieved, and my parents appeared to be as well. I’m so scared, I was planning on telling my mom how I felt but now I can’t stop thinking they will send me away to get _fixed_ as well. I don’t know what sort of help I can get if that happens...” she trailed off. 

“Ok,” Mickey said, “I understand your situation. Know that currently, we have two beds available at the shelter, we will always have a place for you or find one at a partner shelter. This is a 24-hour line so someone will always pick up. I think you should ask your parents how they feel about gay people, gauge their responses and make a decision whether to tell them from there. Even if you do or you don’t, and if you feel unsafe still, don’t hesitate to call us and we will help. Right now, if you are confused, we have sessions here at the shelter. Groups of people just like you get together and talk through their shit. I recommend them,” Mickey said, even though he had never _actually_ attended one. “How does that sound Ashleigh?”

She let out a small laugh, the stress seemed to leave her for a moment. “That sounds good actually. Do you know when the next session is? I'll try and make it. Thank you for the advice. Your name is Mickey, right? Is there a time that's best to call when you are on shift? I don't want to explain it to another person.” 

“The sessions are every day at both 10 am or 4:30 pm," he rattled off the times. He paused before answering the rest. He was only filling in and didn't have an allocated time slot to work the phones, but the idea of someone requesting his help specifically gave him a strange feeling. He didn't want the next _idiot_ who picked up the phone when Ashleigh called to discredit anything he had told her. So, he said, "I work these phones from 6 to 9 pm, Monday to Wednesday.” 

“Great!" Ashleigh replied. “Oh shit, my mom is coming. Thank you for your help, Mickey. It means a lot. I’ll try and make it to a session, b-”

The call cut off. Mickey stared at it for a moment in astonishment. He had helped somebody and _enjoyed_ it. _Am I a fucking girl now?_ He immediately thought, but then got distracted as the phone rang once more, another caller came through. He answered with slightly more confidence than the first time. “Hey this is Mickey from The Rainbow Ministry Institute; how can I help you?” 

*

He managed to get the shift times he promised. The volunteers who didn't live at the shelter were more than happy to give away the late shift. His official 'volunteer' status got him into a two-bedroom with Archie who worked recreation, the same guy who gave him that blowjob when he first arrived. He was a decent guy, and after a few weeks of sharing a room, they became friends. _Probably my first_ , Mickey thought to himself. 

After three years at the shelter, he considered it his home. He worked the phones and picked up extra shifts to fill up his time, smoked and hung out with Archie and attended support group whenever Ashleigh did as she demanded he come with her. Life was good, and for the first time in his life, he was content, not fearing a beat down if he ever flirted with a guy from the shelter or helped organise their events with bright rainbow flags, advertised in the last quarter of newspapers. Sometimes memories of Ian would return, and if he smoked a little more or helped himself to another bottle during those moments, nobody questioned it. 

*

“Let’s go out tonight!” Archie said, flopping down on Mickey’s bed. Mickey was in his chair, smoking near the window. A bottle of beer was perched on the ledge, half empty.

"Get the fuck off my bed man," he took a few puffs of his cigarette. “Why the fuck would we go out. Game night is tonight. We have to beat that shithead Steven. Also, if you haven't noticed. Not many clubs are wheelchair friendly. Fuck that. I'm staying in.” He tossed his cigarette butt out the window before lighting another one.

“Mickey!” Archie whined in a way that would have gotten him decked if he was near the Mickey of three years past. “It’s one of those anti-ableist ones on the North Side. Lower sections of the bar. Ramps and no stairs. Come on! We can’t stay at the shelter forever. You’re a volunteer now, no curfew, your bed’s not going anywhere.” Archie got up from Mickey’s bed and grabbed the handles of his chair. “You know I would never use it against you, but I can easily take you with me... You haven’t got laid in months man. Fuck maybe a year, you ended things with that asshole Luke a year ago right?” Mickey only grunted and finished off his second cigarette before it joined its predecessor.

“Fine. But if you get drunk I am _not_ carrying you back like last time”, Mickey glared at his friend. The memory of his friend slumped across his lap as he pushed them both out of the club will forever haunt him.

Archie smiled. “Whatever you say.” 

*

The club was decent. They served good beer and the music wasn’t trashy beats smashed together but party anthems from five years ago. It was blasting through the speakers above the bar and the dancefloor. Not that it mattered much to Mickey, he couldn't dance to it. There were, as far as he could count, three others in wheelchairs. It was nice, Mickey mused, not being the only one but still a minority. People still stared. Drunk girls accidentally spilt parts of their vodka mixed drinks on him and said that they were _so sorry_ in whiny voices and looked on in pity. Gay guys came up to him and asked if _it all_ still worked with smirks. He would tell them yeah with a smirk and ask if they were going to do anything about it. They would leave quickly after that. People liked the _idea_ of being with him but when faced with the possibility ran for the hills. It made him miss Ian sometimes. He lost contact with Mandy years ago and in turn, lost any knowledge about her red-haired friend.

He took a sip of his beer and Archie clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m getting us more beer. If I’m not back in ten, you know what’s happening.” He winked before disappearing into the crowd, noticeably not in the direction of the crowded bar but towards a beefy looking guy in the corner. Mickey rolled his eyes with a small smile. 

He continued to watch the crowd for a bit. It was known as a gay bar. But that didn’t stop groups of girls coming in to feel like ally’s and to gawk at gay men. Dudes with their girlfriends also came to explore each other’s bisexuality instead of just stopping pretending they have nothing in common. He smiled around his beer as he took another sip. And his eyes darted to the bar hoping to see Archie finally getting another round. Instead, he caught a familiar clash of red hair and a face he hadn't seen in three years. Ian. He was taller, broader, less childlike. _Still hot as fuck_ , was the first thought that went through Mickey’s head before panic set in. _Oh shit._

He was reminded, despite his ogling, that Ian was the asshole who never came to see him. He then quashed down any lust and put his beer on a stray table near him. _Fuck this_. The exit to the club was across the bar. Mickey would have to move through it fast. As he prepared himself to make a move to the exit, he saw a guy in front of Ian turn from his place at the bar and hand him a drink. He had dark hair, was shorter and had pale skin. _So he’s on a date._ He tried not to focus on the fact the date looked like _him_. The desire to leave grew even more but Mickey zeroed his attention on the glowing green exit sign and moved towards it. 

Halfway there, however, and only a few metres from Ian, a girl in a tight strapless yellow dress with stilettos dropped her recently purchased cocktail on him as she was moving to join her friends. It smelt like a pina colada. _Fucking typical, gonna smell like fruity shit the rest of the night_. 

"Oh my gosh, I am _so_ sorry! Sweetie let me help you!” she drunkenly shrieked. If there was one thing he hated more than drunk girls, it was being called _sweetie._

“I got it,” he snapped. “Go join your friends.” The latter were looking at the scene in horror, acrylic nails across their gaping mouths as they rushed their friend away.

He pulled at his shirt, now sodden. Distracted for a moment he didn’t see the figure that was standing in front of him. He looked up to see Gallagher. _Of all the people to notice a drunken spill at a club, it had to be this fucker._

They looked at each other for a moment, daring the other to say something. _I hate you_ , Mickey thought, then, _I love you even after all this time, I wish I could have told you then_. 

Instead, he didn't say anything and wheeled his way towards the exit. The crowds parted for him which made it a quick escape from the situation. He reminded himself, briefly, that he would have to text Archie to tell him he’s going home. He stopped outside the club, a few smokers chatted on his left and the road was filled with idle taxis and cruising police iconic of a Friday night in Chicago’s Boystown. He pulled his phone out to construct the text.

** To Archie  **

**Mickey:** _don’t worry about the drinks. went home. shit happened. tell you tomorrow_

He put his phone away after the text was sent and let out a sigh, his breath briefly clouded in front of him before dissipating into the smog of the city. He began to move in the direction of the shelter. It was a good half-hour walk away, twenty-five minutes if he pushed it, through Graceland Cemetery. He had a pocketknife with him in case any freaks tried to mess with him.

“Mickey, wait!” he heard Ian yell, then, the sounds of rushed footsteps against the pavement littered with spit and cigarette butts and god knows what else.

“Who was the guy you were with? You should probably get back to him” Mickey told him before looking up at Ian with a scowl.

“It was just a friend from work,” Ian replied. “Just a friend.” 

Mickey was silent for a moment. 

“Looked a little like me,” he said quietly, an attempt to keep the pain, the _anger_ , out of his voice. “Working legs though,” he couldn’t help but add.

“But they’re not you," Ian said desperately. "Fuck it's been so long, Mick."

Mickey then snapped. “Stop that shit, if we are about to have a fucking reunion can we not do it outside a fucking club with _Sex Addicts Anonymous_ being the damn audience.” He gestured to the gathering of barred men, not allowed inside the club and some, quite literally, holding their dicks as they watched the patronage from the entrance. Ian grimaced and nodded.

"Walk with me," Mickey said sternly before he moved away from the blasting music. Ian fell into step beside him, and Mickey desperately wanted to ask so many things. _What are you doing with your life? Did you make it to the army? Are you single? Have you gotten out of the South Side? Have you seen Mandy? Why didn’t you ever visit? Why do you suddenly care?_ But these questions were suppressed, he knew he needed to be back at the shelter, his _home_. His safe place where his shit was secure, and he knew he had the power. Walking around in the dead of night with Ian Gallagher gave him a sense of anxiety he hadn't felt in a long time - like he would let whatever Ian said go for the fucking _thrill_ it gave him to be given attention. Ian seemed to understand his silence and kept his questions, if he had any at all, to himself. Mickey wondered if he was just the guy Ian happened to pick up for the night. If in the morning, there would be no trace of him ever entering Mickey’s world again other than the gaping hole it would leave within.

They walked through Graceland cemetery; the smog of the city covered any stars above. Distantly, a group of teenagers screamed, a drunk smashed his empty bottle of cheap whiskey in an alleyway and a couple fucked against a tree. But as they moved along the poorly lit path, Ian wished to hold Mickey’s hand, and Mickey wished that he could be _walking_ alongside the man who plagued his thoughts as the wheels of his chair scraped against the pavement. Neither of their wishes came true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im all for background characters who give blowjobs becoming supportive friends, then take the main character to a club where ~gasp~ their love interest awaits. its an overused plot device but i love it. 
> 
> i now have a beta and i wanted to reassure readers that this won't end with mickey setting himself on fire with a box on Molotov cocktails in his lap like kev and v's neighbour. he deserves better.
> 
> any comments are appreciated! <3


	4. Ceramic Bowls from Goodwill and Cold Sheets

Ian closed the door to Mickey’s room behind him. Archie had replied at the end of their walk to let Mickey know there was no chance of him coming back to their shared room. Mickey didn’t know whether to feel glad or disappointed about that. His absence meant they could deal with their shit privately, but at the same time, Archie wouldn’t be there to tell him what a _stupid mistake_ he was making bringing Ian back into his life, if only for a night. 

Mickey moved himself to the side of his bed and arranged himself so he was sitting against the wall on his mattress. He had gotten better at it over the years. He patted the spot next to him, signalling Ian to join. He cracked open the window, which was littered with stickers from pride events that Archie insisted added character to their room, and lit a cigarette. 

Ian awkwardly sat down beside him. He wrung his hands together and looked around the room, mostly at Archie’s shit, which was _The Script_ posters and pictures of him and Mickey and the other members of the shelter at gay pride marches and events. Mickey wondered what Ian was thinking. _Does he like how happy I look in them? Does he realise I’m not the same closeted guy he used to fuck in the back of a crappy convenience store?_

His first pride march was after rooming with Archie. His friend had begged Mickey to join him, and after hearing _fuck no_ too many times, he had started creating their matching costumes from some television show Mickey didn’t watch right in the middle of the room. He did it blatantly, always when Mickey was in the room so he could see the effort Archie was putting into them. When the date of the march came, Archie had left Mickey’s costume folded on his bed, and gave Mickey puppy eyes from his side of the room. “Fucking _fine_ ,” Mickey hissed out. He had ended up loving it. They were so deep within crowds of sweaty bodies, sequins and rainbow body paint that any fears of Terry showing up and killing him were unfounded. At one point the group of people around them helped lift him above the crowds by the wheels of his chair, the discoloured smoke from fireworks made the parade before him seem ethereal. Half or barely clothed people covered in glitter or various forms of makeup sauntered down the streets with confidence to the beat of the music blasting from parade cars. They looked happy, and witnessing their aura of freedom and confidence, Mickey felt happy too. They hadn’t missed a march since. 

Mickey broke the silence between them. “Why the fuck now Ian?” He turned to look the redhead in the eyes. “You never visited before. You said you would but you fucking didn’t. What do you expect from this? A fuck?” He had already finished half his cigarette, he tapped it out into the crappy ceramic bowl they had bought from Goodwill on his nightstand. _Fuck I smoke too much,_ he thought as he grimaced at the overflowing pile of butts and ash.

Ian turned; anger painted across his expression. “I did visit, Jesus Mickey I did, but you were too busy getting a blowjob to notice.” Mickey stopped smoking and looked at Ian. _What?_ Hesuddenly thought back to his _thing_ with Archie when he had first arrived, he didn’t remember the door ever being closed. _Fuck. Fucking Archie._ He would blame the half of the party who had been able to actually _walk_ to the door and close the fucking thing for that later. 

Ian continued. “I waited more than two fucking weeks to see you. Mandy told me to wait. Said you had to adjust on your own and stuff and that you would just yell at me if I came anyway. Also had some family shit going on. I got you some Snickers bars cause I know you liked them and stole some of Lip’s weed. Arrived. Saw some twink giving you a blowjob. Thought you had moved on and left.” Mickey could hear the pain and anger grow inside Ian the longer he spoke. He threw the cigarette butt out the window and turned to actually face Ian, whose face was flushed red. 

He would laugh about the fact Ian had called Archie a twink later. Now they had to talk.

“Why did you listen to Mandy, shithead? I waited two weeks for you to show up. You didn’t. I got an offer and took it. In my state you can’t blame me, I didn’t know when I would get another chance,” he snapped, trying not to let his emotions seep into his tone. “I really wanted you man. I really did. I’ve been doing great on my own by the way. Haven’t seen Terry. I work the phones here. I’m good. Happy.”

Ian brought his knees up to his chest. “This is fucked,” he mumbled. “I tried to forget you. I got into relationships with so many guys, but I could never forget. I would see guys in wheelchairs and think it was you then feel this _guilt._ It’s my fault that shit happened. I shouldn’t have offered for you to raid the house. If I didn’t then you would be ok and we would be ok-” Ian started to cry, his words choked in the back of this throat. _Jesus_ , Mickey thought, _why was everything always so fucked up with them?_

Mickey quickly reached over and pulled Ian’s face towards him. “Ian-Ian! It’s not your fault what happened to me. Despite how shitty it sometimes is. This got me out. It got me away from Terry and for once I am actually happy. I’m _good_. You don’t need to feel guilty. You can move on. Find a nice guy-” 

He was immediately cut off. 

“What? No, Mickey, I want you, I’ve always wanted you.” Ian sniffed and leant into Mickey’s touch. “I don’t care about your legs or the chair. I never did. I just wanna be with you.” 

Then suddenly, Ian pulled his face away from Mickey and looked upon him with a guarded expression. “Have you found someone? Is that why you are pushing me away?”

“Jesus you’re _dramatic_. I’m not pushing you away, I’m being realistic. No guy wants to be with someone like me. Not making that fucking mistake again.” Mickey promptly drew himself back from Ian. 

Ian hesitated. “What mistake?” then he paused. “Were you in a relationship with someone?” He looked down at his wrung hands, he didn’t want to meet Mickey's gaze and see the answer written across it. _Maybe someone had hurt him, maybe they were on a break._ He had missed out on three years with Mickey, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the older man had moved on. _Fuck when they were last together, they were only fuck buddies who had shared a kiss before a robbery, it wasn’t the foundations of a deeply committed relationship._

There was silence for a moment before Mickey sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “It was a year ago, maybe more. Found a decent enough guy, was hot, packing. Seemed to be alright with the legs and the chair. Before that, I just had one-night stands and never saw the dudes again. Was with him for ‘bout two months before I started asking if we were ever going to do anything more than bang. Stupid girly shit you know? Dude said he wasn’t interested in being serious with someone like me. I was a good lay and all, but he wanted to be with someone who he wouldn’t get stared at with all the time, who he could take anywhere for dinner and shit and wouldn’t have to _worry_ about. Punched the jackass and never saw him again. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t right.” 

Ian watched as Mickey's face grew guarded, his body stiff and defensive. He turned himself towards Mickey and grabbed either side of his face. “He wasn’t. You know that right?” he let out a shuddering breath and rubbed his thumb along Mickey's cheek. “You have no idea what I would give to be the guy to walk down the street with you and have everyone stare,” he said slowly, not taking his gaze off Mickey's cautious expression, “to stress if the restaurants we go to are wheelchair friendly. To worry about you.” 

Vulnerability filled Mickey. _Maybe he’s high. A little drunk. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Just trying to make me feel better about my fucked-up situation. This is him feeling guilty._ He began to pull himself from Ian’s grasp. “You don’t want that shit, Gallagher.” He tried not to look at Ian’s lips, which parted as he let out a breath, and eyes that peered at his own with an intensity he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

Ian just shook his head and whispered, “you’re wrong,” before he surged forward and kissed Mickey. _The man he couldn’t smoke, drink or fuck from his thoughts. The man he was certain he had loved since he was a teenager._

Hands suddenly grappled for collars and zippers. At some point, Ian grabbed the lube from the drawer. He held up a condom in question and Mickey shook his head. “I’m clean.” Ian said the same. Their lips pressed firmly together as their tongues darted across each other. The silence of the room was suddenly filled with soft moans and shuffling, as Ian arranged Mickey on his back, ankles up and over the redhead’s shoulders. Ian was naked and Mickey was still in his boxers. The ginger began to drag them off his hips and up his legs. 

“Fuck, I missed you,” Mickey’s boxers were gone, and Ian suddenly dropped his head to place a kiss on Mickey’s leg. “You can’t feel that, can you?” he murmured into his skin. 

Mickey frowned; his eyebrows furrowed as he concentrated. “I have an incomplete injury, so I can sometimes feel things. Heat. Cold. If I bang it against something. Kisses don’t really register,” he looked into Ian’s eyes and smirked, “maybe if you try and kiss somewhere else though...”

Ian blushed, but smirked back, and moved in front of Mickey’s hardening dick. Mickey’s legs fell from the redhead’s shoulders to his sides. Ian licked the underside of his shaft, and softly squeezed his balls before engulfing Mickey’s length in his mouth and swallowing. “ _Fuck,_ ” Mickey hissed as he grabbed Ian’s hair, “just like that.” 

As his head continued to bob and suck, Ian grabbed the lube beside him and squirted some on his fingers and dick. He licked along the side of Mickey's length as he moved a finger to his tight hole. A hand grabbed him before he could get close. “Just,” Mickey panted and caught Ian’s gaze, “go slow. It’s been a while.” Ian removed his mouth from Mickey’s dick, a string of saliva connected both, and replied, “of course, Mick.”

Ian slowly pushed one finger inside Mickey, who let out a groan. After a few pumps, he added another and began to scissor Mickey open. His fingers brushed against Mickey’s prostate and the boy below whined and fisted the sheets above his head. Ian added a third for good measure, drew them in and out a few times before he removed his hand altogether. “So hot,” he moaned, looking at Mickey’s gaping hole. 

“Do something about it then, shithead,” Mickey snapped. Ian quickly got up and arranged Mickey’s legs over his shoulders once more before pushing in. He started with slow but deep thrusts, he aimed for Mickey’s prostate each time and watched as the man’s knuckles grew white against the clutched sheets and his face flushed with heat. He threw his head back in pleasure. “Faster,” Mickey moaned. 

Speeding up, Ian began to feel the beginnings of his release before Mickey yelled out, “ _Shit!_ Stop.” He immediately pulled out and watched Mickey’s face contort in discomfort. “Fucking _cramp_.” He didn’t feel pain particularly, but instead a tightness and stiffening that was incredibly hard to ignore.

Mickey grabbed the top of his thigh, his arms strained against his slightly shaking leg. After a moment he relaxed a little. “Sorry, man. Happens sometimes. Can we maybe change positions? Do it on our sides?” Ian nodded enthusiastically. He didn’t care, as long as he was with Mickey.

They arranged themselves on their sides and Ian slid his dick back into Mickey. He grabbed Mickey’s thigh and squeezed, dragged it closer to his own so it was Mickey moving against him and not him ploughing into Mickey. The whine that Mickey let out made Ian smirk. “You like that huh?” he nipped Mickey’s ear, “fucking yourself on me?” He began to move Mickey faster.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey moaned, “yeah I like that. I’m close.”

He continued to move Mickey against him for a while until he could feel his own release building and could hear Mickey's whines and groans escalate in volume. Ian then snapped his hips forward and aimed for Mickey’s prostate. He felt Mickey shudder around him and watched him cum against the sheets with a loud moan. Feeling Mickey’s walls clench against his dick, Ian came soon after. He moaned loudly into the back of Mickey’s neck. 

They both took a moment to catch their breaths and savour their release. Ian then slipped out of Mickey and moved to lie on his back. After a while, he broke the silence. 

“...I’m an EMT. Started officially a few months ago. The guy I was with at the club just got out of a bad breakup, so I took him to cheer him up. Left him there the minute I saw you though.” 

“I was with my friend Archie, he’s my roommate. Left him for you as well too,” Mickey said while moving onto his back as well. He shifted with a grimace. “Can feel your damn load leaking out of me Gallagher.” 

Ian let out a soft whine. “Don’t say shit like that. I’m not ready for another round yet.” 

“Oh, so there’s going to be another?”

“If I have anything to say about it, fuck yeah.”

They talked. They told each other how their lives had changed. What they loved, and what they hated, about their jobs. For Ian, it was the deaths and the long hours. Their friends. Mickey had Archie but he didn’t tell Ian he was the one from _that_ day. Their hobbies. Ian loved volunteering at animal shelters but couldn’t adopt because of his rental agreement. Their families. Mickey’s was the shelter. They had sex again. They made doggy style work (with lots of pillows and steady hands) without causing Mickey to cramp or fall. There was a time when Ian slowed his thrusts and leaned forward to gently graze his fingers across the scars of the bullet and the surgery. Carefully. _Lovingly._ Mickey came soon after with a shout. 

Mickey fell asleep to Ian touching him, gentle caresses along his face, this his chest and stomach. His hips and legs. They fell asleep facing each other, Ian’s arm curled along Mickey’s waist and up his back. 

When Mickey woke up, his open window was letting in a frosty Chicago breeze. He quickly snapped it shut and went to shuffle back into the warm body of the man next to him. But the sheets behind him were cold and empty. 

Ian was gone. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are nearly at the end! 
> 
> quick story. i was in a hostel when i wrote this chapter. i was going to write a doggy style scene - but after trying to figure out if a paraplegic man could bottom in that scenario (and the only resources i found were mainly for strait couples) i gave up and just 'said' they did it like a creative writer. i did ask my friend later and they confirmed it could work, with being held up and lots of pillows. basically the hostel would be horrified if they saw my search results using their wifi "disabled sex" and "can a paraplegic have doggy style sex". in my defence it was for research. 
> 
> any comments are appreciated and honestly make my day, I love hearing what you think of this <3


	5. Bagels, Snickers Bars and Spaghetti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end! (but wait)
> 
> This was such a fun thing to write that I decided to write a second part to it which goes a little further into their future together (hint: marriage, babies). 
> 
> I really hoped you enjoyed it! Please let me know your thoughts I love reading your reactions :) 
> 
> \- Fiona

He tried not to panic. 

Sitting upright in his bed, despair washed over him. How could he be so _fucking_ stupid? He let Ian come barrelling into his life again, and storm right back out– which was leaving his heart and mind in _fucking tatters._ He had let him into the shelter, into his _room_. His safe space was now invaded with memories of them together. Talking. Fucking. _Loving._ But it wasn’t love, that was pretty clear from the cold sheets and no sign of the redhead. _Not even a fucking note._

The door to his room suddenly opened. Mickey's head shot up in hope but his heart sank when Archie came through the door. His friend was sporting a number of hickeys across his neck and a sated smile. 

“What’s up man? Have a good night?” Archie slumped down into his own bed. “I got your text. What happened?” 

Mickey opened his mouth, ready to tell Archie everything. How Ian, _yeah that Ian_ , had come back. How they talked about everything and nothing and how they fucked. How Ian said he wanted to be with him but up and left this morning. How he was both pissed and sad, because for the first time in a while he had felt _loved_ again. 

Instead he grabbed his pack of cigarettes and lit one up, then shrugged. “Just shit.” 

Archie looked at his friend sceptically and began to prepare his interrogation on _what the fuck happened_.

But then the door to their room opened, and it was Ian that walked through the doorway. He was carrying two snickers bars and full brown bags from the bagel place three blocks away. He had a smile on his face when he met Mickey's eyes, but it dropped when he saw Archie sitting on the opposite bed.

“What's he doing here?” His voice was quieter. Ian’s expression dropped and he shuffled awkwardly in the doorway. “I might leave,” he said after a moment. 

“Mick who’s this?” Archie asked, and when Ian looked at the floor, he sent Mickey a thumbs up with a wink. Mickey rolled his eyes. 

“This is Ian,” Archie tried to school his expression to nonchalance when internally he was freaking out that this was _the_ Ian. “Ian, Archie. He's my roommate and probably my only friend in this place. He was also just leaving to deal with the damn hickeys on his neck.” 

Ian looked confused for a moment as Archie got up from his bed and came to stand near him in the doorway. “I get it Mick, I'll leave. But you got your own to deal with before you start your shift today.” He gestured to the splatter of dark marks across Mickeys neck and chest. The man in the bed tried to hide his embarrassment as Archie nodded to Ian and left the room. The door was closed behind him. 

“Mick I-” 

“Could’ve left a fucking note!” Mickey snapped. “Thought you had run for the fucking hills.” 

Ians gaze softened. “I wouldn’t do that Mick. You have to know that.” He sat down next to Mickey. “Archie… he was the guy who gave you that blowjob right?” he asked with uncertainty. “Are you guys, like, still doing stuff? Or…” 

Mickey snorted. “Nah man, it was a one-time thing. Don’t need to worry about him.” 

“Oh, ok.”

They were both quiet for a moment. An air of awkwardness set in. 

“So,” Ian said suddenly. “I got us some breakfast, wanna eat it somewhere other than your room?” 

Mickey blushed a little and tugged at his sheets. “Sure, man,” he grinned, “get let me get changed first. Meet you outside.” 

Grabbing the bags and chucking the snickers bars in one of them, Ian got up and kissed Mickey quickly before he left the room. Despite the emotional rollercoaster he had been put through since waking up, Mickey smiled as he got into his chair and dressed himself. He knew things were different between them, that this was more than a one night stand but less than a _relationship_ due to the amount of fucking _history_ between them that they still needed to talk about. _Fuck the shelter therapist would be proud, a Milkovich willingly talking about feelings? If that isn’t career defining, I don’t know what is._

*

Three blocks from the shelter was a park. It was a shitty one, more for people with dogs than children. There were a few benches to sit on but nothing but a small field of grass and dogs running around. It was where they decided to have breakfast. 

Ian sat on the far side of one of the benches and Mickey was next to him on his chair. The redhead passed him a bagel, it was surprisingly still warm. 

“I'm sticking around you know?” Ian told him before taking a bite of his own. In the distance a dog barked loudly and ran towards its owner, a stick dangled from its mouth. 

“I’m not looking for a fucking caretaker,” Mickey mumbled, he brushed some crumbs off his pants. “It's not easy you know. Being with someone like me.” 

“I don’t want to be your caretaker. I know you can look after yourself. I want to be your partner,” Ian turned to look at him. “If you want that too.” 

Mickey hesitated. He scrunched up his brown bag then started tearing a little at its corners. He met Ian’s gaze and knew his answer, to which Ian leaned over and kissed Mickey for, grinning into his neck that he _was so happy_ and that they _could take things slow and figure shit out_. He grinned and kissed Ian again, and couldn’t help but think that maybe for the first time since he was shot, things might work out between them.

*

They moved in together a few months later. A rental agreement was signed for a second storey apartment in a block located a ten-minute walk from the shelter and a bus stop away from the ambulance station Ian worked at. Even though there was a ramp to get in the building and an elevator to get to their floor, Mickey was dreading the day the thing would break down and he would be in it. Despite this, he refused to move into the empty apartment on the first floor. 

Ian had tried to persuade him. The strange relationship the dealer across the hall from the apartment had with the old lady in 1E that resulted in hippie music being played at 2am and intense conversations about cats, as well as the smell of bleach that permeated the potential apartment had dissuaded Mickey from ever wanting to move in. _Maybe he was growing soft, he had tolerated far worse living conditions_. He didn’t know why he cared so much, maybe it was the way the morning sun that filtered through the blinds had lit up his boyfriend’s hair as they inspected the empty room meant to be the bedroom. Maybe it was the fact the neighbours on their floor were quiet retirees, unlike the first floor, with subtitled television. There was also no hint the person who lived in the apartment prior had died in it. Maybe it was the way Ian’s face lit up when he saw the slightly bigger kitchen it had, as if either of them knew how to cook. 

It wasn’t perfect. There were days when Mickey closed himself in his room for hours and tried to will away the _longing_ he had for a working body. He would lie in bed and let the feeling of helplessness seep into him, until Ian would get agitated after the seventh hour and join him. They would hold each other, and Mickey would ask if he was _enough_ and Ian would reply that _of course he fucking was_ and that _he didn’t want anyone else, ever_. 

There were days when Ian would get pissed that Mickey didn’t want to go out to certain places at certain times. When restaurants or shops were busy with the morning or afternoon rush Mickey would avoid them and say he would go later. He could deal with the staring, but if he could navigate his day to get _less_ of them, he always took the chance. Ian would ask if they could meet for lunch during their breaks at new hipster joints with crowds out the door and Mickey would always refuse. His boyfriend would end up bringing takeout boxes from the restaurants to Mickey at the shelter so they could cram themselves in his small office. Ian sat in the chair the kids he counselled did, napkins across his legs as he talked about the horrors of his latest shift. Mickey would stay silent and slowly eat his meal, knowing that Ian would always wait until he was done until he left to go back to the station. 

There were times that they argued. Mostly over the fact Mickey was never getting better and Ian could leave at any point for someone _better_. Ian would argue back that Mickey could leave at any point as well. Mickey would then get scared that everything they had built together, as easy as it came, could just as easily be taken away. Those nights Ian would take him out to dinner or the movies, at times when it was less crowded, and hold his hand across the table or between their seats. The times they argued were also the times they loved.

“Hey,” Mickey called from the couch. His chair was beside the piece of furniture they had thrifted when they first moved in. A beer bottle hung from his grasp as he changed the channel to a rerun of _The Big Bang Theory_. “Remember that Archie is coming for dinner tonight. He's bringing some guy, the love of his life or some shit. Cook for four instead?” 

The head of his boyfriend poked out of the kitchen and fixed him with a glare. “Of course I remembered Mick,” he smiled. “I’m cooking spaghetti!” he told him enthusiastically before he disappeared into the kitchen once more. Mickey shook his head with a smile then focused his attention back on the TV.

Mickey knew how to cook, and if given the time and help getting items from the high cupboards, he could do it. He just preferred to watch Ian struggle with it. The man would constantly forget to turn ovens on, roast vegetables after dealing with the meat or even set timers. Most of the time they had their dinner in portions, the meat first, then the vegetables or sides twenty minutes later. It was endearing but he loved it. He was silently thankful that Ian was cooking spaghetti tonight, which only required the spaghetti and the sauce. He knew deep down something would go wrong though, _maybe the garlic bread will burn_.

Clanging pots and a few exclamations later, Ian came out of the kitchen. His boyfriend’s hands were twisted together nervously as he came to stand in front of the TV Mickey was watching. “Hey Mick - I, uh, I wanted to ask you something…” he stuttered out. 

Now _this_ was strange. Ian was always very forward, always confident and never _nervous_ when he talked to him. Mickey grew concerned and leaned forward to grab Ian’s shaking hands. “What’s going on Gallagher? You breaking up with me or something?” he joked. His heart did clench however, when he said it, deep down he was still insecure about his place in Ian’s life, and Ian’s place in his. He worried one day Ian would realise he didn’t want this life with him, and remove himself as quickly as possible. 

“What? _No_.” Ian rubbed his fingers along his boyfriends’ hands, took a deep breath, and continued. “Can you come outside with me really quick?”

Mickey raised his eyebrows in question, and opened his mouth to retort _how fucking cold it was outside and why the fuck would they do that when there is nothing outside but a vacant lot and drug addicts shooting up_ _,_ but Ian cut in before he could voice his rightful concerns. “ _Please_ , Mick. It will be quick. I just have to show you something. Wait, I’ll go get your jacket so you won’t get cold.” Ian disappeared into their bedroom. 

The pleading tone in his boyfriends voice spurred Mickey into action. He had moved himself from the couch to his chair by the time Ian emerged from their bedroom with his jacket. He shrugged it over his shoulders and nodded to the door, indicating for Ian to open it. “Let’s get whatever this shit is over with.” 

Ian was practically _gleeful_ as they descended to the ground floor in the elevator. Mickey was concerned, to say the least. He hadn’t seen his boyfriend this happy since they moved into the apartment together and could start using phrases like ‘our place’ and ‘our bedroom’. He followed Ian’s back as they made their way outside, the jacket did nothing to prevent the cold chill that overcame him when the door to their block was opened. 

“It’s just around the corner, follow me.” Ian walked around the side of the building that was next to the vacant lot and contained the apartment buildings bins, and Mickey dutifully followed. He tried not to worry about what _it_ was, but failed. It was when his boyfriend began to make ‘psp psp’ sounds into the darkness that fear for the redhead’s sanity grew within Mickey. 

“Ian what the fuck are we doing out here!?” he hissed. 

“Just wait Mick, look here she comes!” Ian grew excited and crouched down before extending his hand. 

Mickey held his breath as a small figure emerged from the darkness. The light had blown two weeks before and the landlord was in no hurry to fix it. A cat's head suddenly rubbed against Ians hand with a purr. The cat was black, with a white splotch on his head and across its chest. But most importantly and had _three fucking legs._ Its front left was gone, a jaggedly healed stump in its place. Realisation hit Mickey, and he didn't know how to feel about his boyfriend practically _collecting_ damaged goods. First him, then this animal. 

“Ian,” he said sternly, “What is this?” 

The cat was looking up at Ian in adoration. He stood up from the ground and the cat limped to rub its body against his pants. His boyfriend met his gaze with a smile.

“I found her last week Mick! I gave her some food after my late shift, and she has hung around. Can we please keep her? The building allows pets, and if not we can make her your support animal or something. I've bought food and collars for her and everything. Wanted to wait until now to tell you because I wanted to be sure she would keep coming round and was comfortable with me, and not like, feral.” 

“I’m a counsellor, do you really think that _I_ would _need_ a support animal? I don’t know about this Ian, we only just got our place together. _Our place_. Do you really want a stray running around our shit?” He watched as his boyfriends expression fell. “Where have you been keeping the food anyway, our apartment is the size of a shoebox?” 

Ian looked bashful for a moment before answering, “Miss Keene offered to keep it in hers if I gave a presentation about EMT work at the school she teaches at.” 

The cat continued to circle Ian for attention. “She needs us Mick, can we _please_ keep her?” 

It was official. Mickey was soft. The image of his boyfriend, happy and surrounded by a damaged animal did something to him akin to a heart melting and a blush spreading that _this_ was the man he loved. 

“Go get the food from Miss Keene.” Ian’s brows furrowed in confusion and Mickey continued, “I'll bring it inside. Also – you should check on that spaghetti. Archie is getting here in like twenty minutes.” 

Before Ian could hug and kiss his boyfriend while thanking him profusely, he yelled out “ _Shit!”._ He scrambled to get to the front door of their building and the cat looked on in confusion, “Sorry Mick, I'll get the food and finishdinner. See you inside. Love you!” The door closed behind him and Mickey watched as he avoided the elevator and took the stairs instead. 

Mickey was left outside with the cat. “Hey, kitty,” he tried to say nicely, but was pretty sure he failed at as the feline backed away. He snorted then wheeled to the door of the building. He held open the door for her. “Coming in? We got food and shit.” 

After a moment the cat scurried past him and through the open door. The lighting in front of the elevator revealed its matted coat and ribcage that jutted out, hinting at lack of food. Mickey closed the door and moved in front of the elevator. He pressed the ‘up’ button. 

“Welcome home, I guess.” 

*

“Fuck, Millie, get off!” Mickey groaned as the three legged cat made herself comfortable on his legs. He was lying in bed, waiting for Ian to come home. It was 11:30pm. Mickey didn't mind waiting, knowing that sometimes Ian wanted to talk about the shit he had to deal with on his shift, or not talk at all and fall into his boyfriend's arms and sleep. He set his book down and stroked the top of the cat's head. “You better fuck off when Ian gets home.” 

The sound of their apartment door opening did not discourage the cat, who curled further into his lap and closed her eyes. He could hear Ian shuffle through the door and take his jacket and backpack off. “Hey Mick, I'm home!” Ian called out. 

“Come the fuck to bed, Gallagher!” he yelled out. 

“Coming!” Ian called back with a laugh. A moment later the redhead joined him in their bedroom. Stripping off his clothes, Ian climbed into bed and sighed before rubbing his hand across his face. 

“Do you ever wonder where we would be if you didn’t get shot?” Ian asked. They were both on their backs staring at the roof of their bedroom. Downstairs, hippie music started playing and the drug dealer from downstairs yelled, “Yes! Rock it Miss J!” They both shuddered. 

Mickey sighed. “All the fucking time.” 

“Do you think you would still be in the closet? Maybe you get married to a chick or something, maybe I'm the one who gets sick or needs more help.” Ian was quiet for a moment. “To be honest, I like this ending better.” 

Turning to face his boyfriend, Mickey grinned. “Maybe there is something to say about the liberating power of old women with guns. She literally _shot_ me out of the fucking closet.” 

Ian laughed, and leaned over to press his lips to Mickey's cheek. 

“I love you, Mickey Milkovich, your legs, chair, support animal and all,” Ian smiled into Mickey's cheek and wrapped his arm around his chest. 

Mickey smirked. “Fuck you, Gallagher,” he leaned closer and captured Ian’s lips in a kiss. Ian moved to get on top of Mickey but forgot about the sleeping feline on his legs. Millie let out at indignant squawk and moved to sit at the end of the bed before fixing the couple with a glare. “Not tonight then?” 

“Told you the cat was a fucking mistake. It’s cockblocking us. In our own home.” 

“Oh shut up, you love her,” Ian went to turn off the light. He returned to the bed and bundled Mickey in his arms again. They were silent for a while. Millie curled herself at the end of the bed and closed her eyes, and eventually the hippie music coming through the floorboards was switched off. 

“Hey Ian?” Mickey asked into the darkness of the room. 

Ian responded sleepily and instinctively pressed himself closer to Mickey's body. “Yeah?” 

“I like this ending as well.” 

  
  



End file.
